


There the Rain Raised Mountains

by pettycoat



Category: Furi (Video Game)
Genre: Multi, Muteness, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, more tags to be added as fic continues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-03-28 02:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13893855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettycoat/pseuds/pettycoat
Summary: There's still so much to be said.





	1. So will I stay in these endless seconds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Fio.

He’s never ready for the rain. This world seems to have it in excess, and though the little mountain cave he’s claimed in the months since the Mothership’s fall is hardly the most sophisticated shelter, Rider still finds himself darting inside with every first sign of thunder. Sometimes the rain whispers and sometimes the rain roars, but the lightning always comes tearing out of the skies like a promise of violence, too powerful to ignore. Rider huddles in the shadows and scowls into the dark. He’s not afraid, he tells himself, just--apprehensive.

The shocks in his cell had never been enough to kill him. The exhaustion would claim him eventually, perhaps his Jailer would grow a little too enthusiastic in his games, but the shocks hadn’t been designed to be fatal. He’d never been so naive to assume that had been an act of mercy. They’d come at regular intervals, at first. One shock every fifteen seconds just meant he had fourteen seconds to focus on anything but his surroundings. His short time on the surface had given him more than enough material: The lake he’d found just over the hill from his landing site. The first time he’d seen a sunrise. That field of wildflowers he’d stumbled upon three days after first contact. Until he’d come to this planet, Rider had always thought green to be an exceptionally _ugly_ color.

Then his Jailer had decided to rip the timer out of the machine, and from then on all Rider could ever think about was _when_ those shocks would come. Even in the quiet, where the anticipation of pain was somehow worse than any _actual_ pain, the eternal storm raging just outside his prison made sure he would never have a thought of peace again. He would try to think of that field, that horizon, those _flowers_ , and then the world would tear apart with a scream of thunder, and he would be left with nothing but the shards of a memory, cutting into him like teeth while his Jailer laughed and laughed.

Rider curls tighter, legs in a knot, head in a storm, and waits for the violence to pass.

The thunder lumbers away by sunrise. Rider wishes he could say the same for the clouds. The years spent locked in that cell have conditioned him to expect cruelty in calmness, and so he stands at the mouth of the cave for what feels like days, staring up at a sky that never does anything more than threaten rain while he waits for the first bolt of light to crack through like laughter. It’s past noon by the time he ventures out into open air, and the little he can see of the sun seems so small and far away. The mountain is cold and damp. Everything smells like water. Rider vaults onto a slick shelf of rock and tries not to think about all that debris still floating around in the atmosphere.

He knows he isn’t alone out here. A forested valley stretches beyond the base of the mountain, vast and green. He’s seen a few deer, some birds. Wolves. Once, not long after he’d decided to land here with the revelation that stone was only _mostly_ unaffected by his presence, he’d stirred to find a bear ripping fish from the river not ten steps from where he had stopped to rest. It had been a hulking thing with eyes like slate and teeth as long as his fingers. He’d been quick to creep away, more for _its_ safety than his own. He’s seen a thousand planets fall to ruin in the decades since his last activation, and the only thing that has ever given him the slightest cause for hesitation is the knowledge that not everything mired in Corruption dies in an instant.

In the distance, some lone alien creature lets out a scream.

Rider presses his nose to his knees and ponders. It’s all he can do now, really. Ponder. Ponder what he’s done, what he hasn’t done, what he can only ever hope to do here on a world that crumbles to cinders with the lightest brush of skin. There’s that vague sense of guilt that always comes with these moments, some buried instinct that compels him to keep moving even when he has nothing left to scout, and even though he knows he’s freed himself of these obligations, he can’t shake the thought that he’s doing something _wrong_. The Mothership is gone, no, _destroyed_. One glance at the sky is enough to tell him it hasn’t disappeared. He has no memory of the planet he’d been created to save, but he’s certain its days are numbered. He wonders if he should feel guilty, thinks better of it. That phantom world had never been a home to him, and Rider knows well enough that nothing can be done for a planet doomed to die. … Perhaps with one exception. Rider stares up at the Mothership’s ruin and wonders just how many of those shadows share his face.

The wind comes sharp and biting by the time his thoughts release him, whipping his hair into a frenzy until he manages to tame it under the collar of his coat, and he knows that’s water on the air even before his skin starts to sizzle and hiss. Rider rips the zipper up his throat and thrusts his fists into the long-neglected sleeves, twisting himself in fabric until he’s suffocating in red. He’d found it on a corpse who knows how many worlds ago, the only thing to not burn away to ashes the moment his feet had passed it over, and he’s long since discovered that it seems equally impenetrable to water. Whatever its construction, it’s served him as a better companion than what little else was granted to him by The Star.

Rider scans the valley before his eyes catch on a flower rooted in the cliffs below. It’s a small, delicate thing that’s still managed to claw its way out of the rocks, its petals the same cold electric blue as his pupils. He wishes he knew its name, wonders if he’s the first to ever see it. Even now, this world continues to surprise him with all it has to offer. He thinks back to the reports he’d scanned in preparation for first contact, how fascinating they’d been in their claims and how inaccurate they’d been in testing. The land is teeming with flora, the fauna varied and constantly changing, and the days race by in a flash, far faster than on any other planet he’s ever been assigned. It’s a world as intriguing as it is mystifying, a great ball of silicate rocks and metals that still manages to support so many differing lifeforms. The reports had told him that the planet has undergone more change in the past ten thousand years than any other planet in the solar system. Rider doesn’t know if that’s true. He only knows that this is everything he--or an assimilator--could ever want in a target.

The sky is darkening quickly, and not for a lack of day. By the time Rider picks up on a drop in barometric pressure, the sun is a slip of yellow light in the clouds and the birds have nearly gone silent. Rider mindlessly scrapes his hands over the soil and rips back to find his palms black with ash. It’s nearly evening.

The river is cold and clear as ever by the time he wavers over to it, fat little fish darting through the rapids as the light of the sinking sun winks cheerily over their scales. The banks have swelled considerably since last night’s downpour. Rider doesn’t like to think about what it’ll look like with another. A fine spray flutters up to hiss against his skin. He stares, absently curling his toes in the silt. He’d had boots, once. Gloves, too. Both had been taken from him moments before he’d been locked into that machine. Rider dips down to take two small rocks he’d left on the ground the day before, one in each hand, and very carefully sends a few splashes into the vaguely bowl-shaped slip of stone. The water runs over his hands from clear to neon green and boils when it touches the ground. He dries his fingers on his coat and turns up his head to confront the sky. Another storm is coming. It’s far off on the horizon, but it’s still too close. He feels a tightness in his throat when a bolt of lightning slips soundless over the clouds, and he tilts into a sprint before leaping back down to his cave, safe for another night.

A revelation comes with the first pitter patter of rain: Rider’s hair is starting to become trouble. He supposes it’s _been_ trouble ever since he’d been freed from that machine (--and there comes that _thought_ again, is he out there, is he safe, and Rider once again rationalizes that a man like that would never allow himself to come all that way for _nothing_ \--) but the low artificial gravity of the cells had at least been enough to keep it out of his face. He has no such luxury here. All the water in the air somehow causes it to both knot together and stick out in all directions, and the constant hiss of Corruption with anything greater than a sprinkling is starting to worry him. He has to cut it, he tells himself, but then what? Should he bury it? Burn it? What can he do without corrupting anything further? Briefly, he dares to entertain the idea of flinging it out into space. Rider huffs at himself before pulling his coat tight over his shoulders. He doesn’t think he can go back out there again. He’s a scout. Even if he no longer has a mission, he belongs on land. He doesn’t sleep--not in the same way humans do, at least--but it’s something close enough, and he welcomes the rest.

He stirs some time later. How much later, he can’t say, but it’s still dark, and the rain is tumbling down in sheets. The crash of water against stone echoes on a breath of cool, damp air, and Rider is just beginning to nod off again when the world splits in half.

Rider rips to his feet, nearly cracking his head on the stone. His ears are ringing, his heartrate rocketing to more than twenty beats per minute, and the stench of ozone is as smothering as the realization of just how _close_ that lightning came to strike. Rider takes a step, stops, curls his fingers into fists and tries to quiet his breathing. He manually dilates his pupils and still can’t see much beyond a shadow of water on blackness. He forces down a breath before fumbling around in the darkness. His flight suit. Where is his flight suit? He stumbles over a shadow and smashes a rib on a stone.

 _Stop_ , a voice tells him before he can do more than scramble on the floor. _Collect. Assess. The cells are months behind you. The Jailer is months dead. What was it He said, every time you were defeated? What was it He told you?_

Rider can’t remember.

 _Yes, you can_ , the voice insists. _Stop lying to yourself. Focus!_

Rider tries. But all he can hear is thunder.

 _I hear thunder, pitter patter_ , the voice echoes like a mockery. Rider think that’ll be end of it, that he’ll just lie here caught up in a memory until he can’t anymore, but then The Voice is there, The Voice is whispering to him, and all that matters is his command. _Time to wake up._

Rider pushes to both knees, grasps a furrow in the wall, strains, pulls, stands. He stumbles around until he finds himself back at the mouth of the cave. Rider smells smoke. There’s a roaring sound, made by nothing living. When he dares to peer outside, a bright orange haze is all that greets him through the curtain of water.

Rider watches the forest burn for what could easily be hours. He can’t remember making the conscious decision to kneel, but the cave floor comes up to meet him all the same, and he stares, numb, as the trees crackle and burst and the rain runs black as oil. The wind is blowing away from him, the river and curve of the mountain a natural barrier to flames that sear the air. He’s in no danger. But he still flinches every time the clouds crack in half.

The sun has come and gone and come again by the time the fire begins to die. Ribbons of flame spark over the ruin of the earth to be smothered by dampened ash. More than once, Rider sees a knot of charred wood pop and ignite to send cinders scattering on the wind. The rain is more a mist than a patter. There is no lightning. Rider creeps out under the clouds and doesn’t even care that every step sends more water boiling green. A thin ring of thinner young trees is all that remains of the forest, bowing in on the blackened heart like a cone of overburdened tentpoles. There’s no sound but the water, no sign of life but the rush of blood in his ears. Every breath sends more smoke burning up his nostrils.

He can’t stay, he tells himself that night, curled so far in the back of the cave that even the smoke can’t touch him, but a part of him thinks that there’s nowhere better in the world for him to be. What more could he do to this place that hasn’t already been done? But Rider can’t lie to himself. It isn’t a question of whether or not he _can_ stay here. It’s a question of whether or not he _wants_ to. It’s a strange sensation, wanting something. Rider doesn’t think he’s ever allowed himself to experience it before. Protocol tells him to keep moving until he finds his target. Riders have no home. They are created to protect another. But experience tells him to stand back and assess the situation while the shocks have faded and the thunder has gone quiet.

So Rider considers his options. The first: he doesn’t move. He stays in this cave until the world fades out or he fades out and every planet left in this ravaged system sits unaware of how close each came to destruction. Rider doesn’t know if it’s possible for him to die of old age, but he knows what it’s like to die, and spending the rest of his days wrapped in the cool, quiet darkness doesn’t sound half so bad as watching another world burn down. Of his options, this one carries the least risk. Perhaps that’s why it also carries the least appeal. So on to the second: he ventures out into the smoke and ash and finds another place to hide. It doesn’t have to be a forest. It doesn’t even have to be somewhere _green_. So long as it’s isolated and he has a cave to hide in and stone to walk over, he can learn to be content with what this world has given him. But that’s not his last choice. Third: he climbs into his flight suit and returns to the void of space, never to see this world again. He can’t say he knows if there are other Stars out there. He can’t say he knows if there are other planets _left_. But the galaxies stretch on and the possibilities are limitless, and there’s always been a strange comfort in coming to a new world even while every cell and wire screams that he’s nothing without a command to follow.

Rider makes a fist in the dirt and discards these ideas with a shower of pebbles and ash. He’s being selfish. He knows he is. And he knows he doesn’t care. All that’s left is the fourth option, the one he’s thought about the most of all, even before coming to this mountain: Rider cleans himself up, locks himself in for the first of many flights, and finds his way back to where he started. After lifetimes of conquering planets, a few continents don’t seem nearly so far a distance. The coordinates to the launch tower are still programmed into him. He can still make it. But those same questions linger.

 _Do you think they will welcome you?_ The Star had asked, a final bid for reason to convince him to lay down his weapon and turn up his head for his inevitable neutralization, but in that moment, Rider hadn’t been thinking at all. Not about his future, not about his past, not about those he’d left on the surface, nor those he’d left to rot in their cells. He hadn’t even thought far enough ahead to wonder where he would go once the cannonfire had stopped and the trackers in his brain had gone quiet. Contingency plans had never meant much to him when any obstacle could be burned, shot, or hacked to pieces, and even those rare dangers could still be easily outrun.

All but for one.

Rider clenches his hands in his lap. Perhaps it’s best not to think about what he can or can’t do. Questioning his actions has never been an option before this world, and he’s sorely unpracticed. Perhaps it’s wiser to just _move_ , leave this all behind for something he can do more than passively observe. He’s an invader here, he knows that, but this world is nothing if not open under his feet, and he has a long way to go before he’ll exhaust his discoveries.

Another night passes before Rider climbs into his flight suit and maneuvers it back into the sunlight. It’s an overcast day, gray but not unwelcoming, and Rider tries not to think about what dangers are hiding in that unassuming slip of clouds. He casts what he thinks is going to be his last look at the sky beyond the mountains, and stops.

At certain times of day, Rider can still see the cells. They’re harder to scope out than the Mothership and don’t stay around for nearly so long, but they’re still an unwelcome reminder of things better left forgotten. Rider does the usual tests and routines before locking himself in and kicking into launch, coat sticking to him as the vertical climb forces every stray hair flat against his skin. It’s no time at all before he pierces the clouds, and soon, he’s moving forward, racing west into the setting sun.

The world passes under him in flashes through the clouds. Valley gives way to taiga, taiga to tundra, and sooner than he expects, the sea opens up to swallow the land whole. Sun winks over the water before being devoured by another long stretch of earth. He can’t say how long this goes on, but when a second ocean passes and the rocky shores open up to a patchwork of winding green hills, Rider knows he’s getting close. He reconfirms the coordinates with a glance at something unseeable and finally makes preparations to descend. Per the position of the sun, it’s mid-morning at this latitude. It’s warm. Though fluctuations in temperature have never been much more to him than yet another piece of data to observe and catalogue, Rider thinks he likes the warmth. The launch tower sprouts up from the horizon to confront him on high, and he follows it like a beacon, not stopping until he’s swallowed by its shadow.

The land shows him nothing. There’s no one around for miles.

Rider hovers a safe distance from the surface, scanning. All he can see is a world waiting for ruin. The scars he’s left on the land are still black and barren, carved into the earth like some ashen memorial, and the dark path splits and terminates in three notable directions. The first, the launch tower, formidable and grim. The second, the door to the cells, rain-tattered and awaiting activation.

The third. The last. Marked by a microphone left abandoned in the grass. Rider only goes down to it when he tells himself he can’t do any more damage than he already has.

The microphone and its stand are cool to the touch and heavier than they appear, tangled in grass blades long yellowed and rotted. The blades burn away completely when Rider eases the microphone loose and takes it in both hands, and he runs his fingers over it, marveling at its smoothness. Rider can make out the fine lines in the thumbprints that have survived exposure, and when Rider presses his own thumb to it, it only leaves behind a smooth, formless smudge. He sets it upright like he expects it to shatter to dust. He stares at it for a long, long time.

The walk back to his flight suit feels especially difficult, though it can’t be more than ten steps before Rider straps in and looks to the sky and asks himself what he’s going to do now. The clouds are pure white here, floating and free. There’s no thunder waiting just beyond the veil. The green seems to go on forever, and the breeze drifts up with the sharp yet welcome scents of flora he can never name. Rider takes it all in and thinks this, at least, is something he can protect. He coasts over to the launch tower and peeks inside. A single red emergency light is all that’s visible in the blackness. He flies in and climbs out of his flight suit and moves like he means to close the doors behind him. He stops with his fingers inches from the button. He considers. The breeze ruffles his hair like a beckoning hand. He makes sure to follow the trail he’s etched into the dirt and doesn’t close the door again until he has the microphone safe inside. An attempt to flick the lights on just leaves him flinching hard when something bursts and sends an arc of electricity flashing. He stands there, alone in the dark with one hand still wrapped around the microphone, and shudders.

Rider fumbles around for another switch, running through a memory only half-remembered, and it isn’t too long before he’s got a hand on it. He presses. The ceiling rocks, sending a dull cloud of dust fluttering, and then the circle splits and shrinks outward, panels tilting up like petals on a new blossom. The panels running up the sides of the tower are quick to follow. Sunlight floods the room, only separated from the floor by a gold-tinted forcefield. Rider takes in the disorder with muted distaste before abruptly realizing that this is _not_ how he left it.

Loose wires and mismatched panels crowd together on the floor, the pattern only broken by a few strange gadgets Rider has no hope of recognizing. A single chair sits empty in the corner, and beyond that, some forgotten relic of machinery partially covered by a sheet. Rider creeps over like he’s expecting a trap and covers his hands with his sleeves, tugging the sheet off. He nearly jumps away when he finds The Voice staring back at him.

No, not The Voice. It’s his mask, dangling sideways and encircled by no less than a dozen arrows. Rider tilts his mouth. He reaches into the hollow of the mask and pulls back to find a small, palm-sized cube with a bright yellow button built loose into its casing. Attached to it is a note. Handwritten. PUSH ME, it demands. Rider wrinkles his nose before doing just that.

He flinches when the cube springs up from his fingers, spinning in the air before it stops and rights itself. It floats to the center of the room as a side splits open and a light shines out, forming a hologram of something he eventually recognizes as a topographic map. The hills stretch and rise as the hologram gains another dimension, and he’s suddenly looking at a flickering, washed-out model of his surroundings. The launch tower is the last to pop up, blinking hard, and then an arrow forms just over the top of it, text sprouting up not long after. YOU ARE HERE, it screams at him. Rider glares. The hologram wavers and stretches, and suddenly it’s tripled in size, shrinking the launch tower down to a speck on a hill. There at the end, past a meadow and a lake, another arrow blooms. There’s no text this time, but Rider’s sure he’s caught the message. The hologram snaps out of sight and sends the cube tumbling to the ground. When Rider presses the button again, it holds where it left off, the second arrow floating just beyond the lake.

Rider doesn’t hesitate to climb back into his flight suit. He judges that he still has a few more hours of daylight, and the weather is warm and welcoming. Wind sends waves through the grass as he ascends a few hundred feet in the air, and he turns, scouting. There, he thinks, seeing a meadow that stretches miles ahead, and he races out to it like he expects it to run away. The meadow opens up to more hills, a cliffside, a grove of trees, and suddenly the lake is racing forward to meet him, blue as it is brilliant. There, on the distant bank, he can see a crude human settlement. Rider makes it halfway across the water before he abruptly stops.

The last time he’d seen this many humans in one place, he’d approached them with every intention of killing them. Not so much out of cruelty as it was some perceived necessity, but Rider knows it doesn’t make a difference. It feels like an eternity ago, but it hasn’t been long enough to forget. Someone has spotted him. A dozen figures fly out of their homes to collect at the bank, and suddenly they’re scattering, a few tripping over themselves to flee. Rider clenches his jaw before circling around the side, making sure to keep his distance from both the ground and the people before he spots a shelf of rock jutting from the grass. He lowers himself onto it, powers down his flight suit, and waits.

It takes a while for them to realize that he isn’t approaching them, though many are already long out of sight. Rider eases his way out of his flight suit and moves to stand on the rock as slowly as possible. Corruption blackens the earth when he moves just a little too far. He finds a safe spot and crouches, pulling his coat over himself like a shield.

An eon passes. The few humans who haven’t fled form a semicircle a fair distance ahead of him, but they don’t move any closer than that. They look confused as they do frightened, and they all wear simple, loose-fitting clothes that flutter and snap in the wind. Rider scans. Small, tall, old, young, male, female. So eager to differentiate themselves, and yet he can scarcely tell them apart. All but for one. The only man to approach him is the only man to leave his head uncovered. Not that it matters when he knows he’s never seen his face, but Rider takes in the details with a sense of familiarity all the same. Straight dark hair, cropped short at the ears. Light brown skin, smooth and clear but for a few shallow lines around his small, worry-bright eyes. A pair of dry, chewed lips seemingly made for anxious frowns. Utterly unremarkable.

But that smile. Rider knows that smile anywhere.

“I _knew_ you’d come back,” The Voice says through his grin. Rider blinks. Even now, he’s still so eager to speak for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from [Diamond](https://youtu.be/XvMxJkTaE4I) by Lorn.


	2. Still looking for the same old feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from [The Gun](http://youtu.be/-H6TQJwrlkk) by Lorn, which I consider to be Rider's "theme" of sorts for this project. While we're at it, [here's](http://youtu.be/oLj4_56xuxA) the theme for my update schedule. This thing was supposed to be updated more than a month ago aaah.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who left feedback on the first chapter. I hope the wait was worth it.

The stares don’t stop once day bleeds into evening. If anything, darkness seems to make the humans bolder. Rider estimates that it’s a village of perhaps fifty, crowded into half as many tents and tilted, weather-worn hovels, and the footpaths cutting into the hills beyond tell him that this place doesn’t end at the crude palisade haphazardly constructed from scraps of metal and wood. The Voice has been gone for hours. It had still been daylight when Rider had watched him duck into the large dark structure in the center of the village with several others trailing him, and though he can’t be certain he knows what they’ve been talking about for all this time, Rider is sure he can make some assumptions. He has yet to come down from his rock. It’s not just for fear of Corruption.

Looking out at the village, Rider still finds himself questioning just how far along they are with their technology. It’s… strange. The few humans who choose not to hide heat their food over open flame while others light their homes with glowing, palm-sized discs molded from a material he doesn’t recognize. A brief scan tells him the discs are powered by tiny photosynthetic organisms that he’s only ever encountered in the shallows of another world’s sea, and that just raises more questions than it answers. He’s seen so much more sophisticated machinery on this planet. Why would they limit themselves to _this?_ Rider is staring at some sort of antenna, jutting from one of the stone-and-wood structures and clearly cobbled together from pieces of multiple machines, when a door creaks open and a shout catches on the wind. A man is staring at him from the doorway of the largest structure. It’s not The Voice. The man looks at him long enough for Rider to clench his hands, and then he turns back inside, the door swinging shut behind him. Rider hasn’t relaxed by the time the door opens again. It isn’t The Voice standing there, nor is it the man. He can’t tell if they’re male or female, only that they’re very thin. They’re approaching him, whomever they are, and Rider is only starting to pick out the finer details in the shadows when The Voice comes trailing after in a brisk walk.

It isn’t long before Rider realizes that the thin human is a woman. A taller, older woman with light brown skin and dirt around her hems, the faded blue scarf wrapped around her throat and head failing to conceal the nest of silver-black hair peeking out from the folds in the cloth. Now the entire village is looking his way. She doesn’t allow The Voice to get a word in before she speaks directly to Rider.

“Your friend says you’ve changed.” The woman’s voice is deep and as unyielding as the weight of her gray-eyed stare. “I have yet to see any proof.” She stands before him like she’s cut from steel, her narrow face grim and serious. “Do you expect us to trust you with our lives on hearsay?”

Rider just holds his frown. Her jaw tightens when he says nothing.

“Can you speak?” she asks.

Rider remains quiet.

“Then can you write?” the woman asks, expression never changing. “Or sign?”

The Voice cuts between them. He’s shorter than her. She has no trouble looking over him. “I’m afraid this one’s not terribly talkative." Rider can’t see The Voice's face, but he can’t imagine he’s smiling. “Though I shouldn’t have to tell you that still waters run deep.” The Voice abruptly turns to Rider. “That is… unless the circumstances have changed since we last saw each other?

Rider gives a stare as answer.

“Right.” The Voice turns back. “You’re not sending him away.”

The woman only offers a quiet look of disdain.

“The shadows on the sun,” The Voice starts, “the explosion in the sky. That was him. He fought off the invasion by his own choice. He _saved_ us. Without him, none of us would still be alive.”

“Without him, we would have never faced the risk,” the woman replies coolly.

“He’s changed,” The Voice says. “I swear it.”

Eventually, the woman’s eyes drift up to linger over the ashes on Rider’s soles, the broken manacle on his right ankle, the sword on his left hip and the pistol holstered beside. She stares at the last one for a very long time. When she finally lifts her head to meet Rider’s eyes again, her eyes seem all the more cold.

“Would a changed man carry a weapon?” she asks.

Rider bites his cheek. It’s some time before he shrugs off his coat, unsheathes his sword, unholsters his gun, all without breaking eye contact. A few locks and clicks leave everything deactivated, but he still takes great care to move slowly as he folds them into his coat and lifts it up by the knotted sleeves. He lowers it to the grass and sits waiting, exposed armor glinting in the moonlight.

It can’t be that long before the woman turns to address The Voice, though the seconds tick by like hours. “You’re needed elsewhere,” is all she tells him.

The Voice huffs, crossing his arms. He falls back against the rock and swings one leg over the other, oblivious to the panic that spasms across Rider’s face and sends him shuffling back a safe distance. “I don’t think so.”

The woman somehow clenches her fists tighter, but she says nothing. Rider tenses when she takes that first step toward him and stops to stand over his coat. Seeing her drop to one knee and take the pistol in both hands nearly sends him bolting.

“Death clings to you, Stranger,” she murmurs, not looking up. “And the scars of your Corruption run far and deep.” She flicks the locks open, one by one, careful to keep her fingers off the trigger and the muzzle pointed firmly to the ground. Rider still shifts his weight onto his toes like he expects her to somehow outmaneuver him. “You’ve never seen me, but I’ve seen you, and I know better than anyone here what you’re capable of.” There’s a click, too soft to drown out The Voice’s scoff. A snap. The woman finally lifts her head, but not her hands. The look in her eyes is so cold that the chill of the night may as well be another burst of lightning carving fire through Rider’s veins. “If I had the resources, I would not hesitate to throw you right back into your cell.”

“But you don’t,” The Voice says.

The woman works her jaw under her skin. “But I don’t,” she concedes. The gun lights up with a violent whir.

Rider curls his fingers over his knees. The Voice doesn’t move at all. Rider sits there, ready to run, ready for her to instigate, but an attack never comes.

“Are you quite finished?” The Voice rumbles at the woman.

The woman stares, teeth working at the tip of her tongue. She finally drops her hands. The gun tumbles to the grass in pieces, expertly dismantled.

“Why did you come here, Stranger?” she asks, pushing to her feet. Her stare is unwavering. “What do you hope to find here?”

“Some gratitude might be a nice start,” The Voice says, looking off to the side. Rider says nothing. Rider isn’t even sure he knows the answer.

“Nothing you’ve done has shown me that you’ve repented,” the woman says. “Perhaps you rebelled to protect your own freedom. Maybe the cells broke you. All I know is that we were more innocent bystanders in your selfish plans. Just like we always were.” She takes a step closer, scorched soil crunching beneath her boots, and Rider recoils, ever aware of Corruption. Something flickers in her eyes when she stops to search his face. She pulls away.

“If you truly wanted to help us,” the woman says, “you would leave. Every person in this village has known your destruction. It is not your choice to join us. Or to be forgiven.” She gathers up the pieces of the gun, turns on her heel, and walks back to the village without so much as another glance over her shoulder.

There’s a weight to The Voice’s silence as Rider reclaims his coat. He sheathes his sword with reflexive ease, but the empty holster somehow feels heavier. He has a leg strapped into his flight suit when The Voice pushes off from the rock and turns to look up at him.

“I’ll come to you,” The Voice says, like he wants to say something else. He’s frowning. The anger still hasn’t left his eyes. “In—the tower, whatever that _thing_ is. I can’t tonight, maybe not even tomorrow, but—I’ll be there. Just trust me.” He drags a hand over his chest. “ _Trust_ me.”

Rider coasts backwards a considerable distance before ascending with a burst. He doesn’t know if the sound is enough to damage a human’s ears, but the risk far outweighs the effort. The grass still flattens with the force of the launch. He has no trouble making his way back, but the night is so much different here than it was on that mountain. Quieter, and calmer. He doesn’t immediately go back inside. He just floats on the winds, takes in the sounds, basks in the moonlight without so much as a thought of storms. Rider eventually lowers himself into the launch tower, but he doesn’t close the roof. There are no clouds here. There’s no reason to hide. Rider sits in the dark and thinks about the sun until it’s finally shining over him. He can’t remember the last time he's seen a sky so blue.

The Voice doesn’t come the next day. Or the next. Rider’s patient. Rider trusts. He studiously organizes and catalogs the few objects he can recognize, making sure to keep the panels open and the sun bright and close, and though he’s far from accustomed to moving around without the anxious anticipation of ashes crumbling under his feet, he still takes care to fold his sleeves over his hands any time he has to touch something. He’s found that dust is yet another terrestrial substance that curls and blackens under his fingers. Soon the ashen handprints become just another thing to clean. Despite his every thought, he knows he’s in no danger of spreading his Corruption here. Three full days pass with little of note beyond the revelation that a fork-tailed bird has taken an outer crevice of the tower for a nesting site. Rider watches, curious as he is cautious, as it darts over the force field protecting the gap in the roof and weaves itself a home from mud and twigs. The world below the sky is still and quiet. It’s early evening when he picks up on a low, alien humming. It’s steadily growing louder. Closer. Rider straightens, hand reflexively flying to his holster, and when that fails, the hilt of his sword, but he doesn’t do more than listen. At least until the humming swells and drops.

Rider sits in the dark, straining to hear anything else. There’s a light drag and crunch just outside. Something is moving through the grass. Rider is fully alert by the time he hears a rhythmic tapping just beyond the doors. Rider sits perfectly still until it happens again. He sidesteps over to the electronic lock and deactivates it, the doors slipping open with a soft swish of pneumatics.

“Pardon the late hour,” The Voice says inches from his face. “These last few days have been rather… eventful.” He sighs and drags his fingers through his hair, brushing off invisible dust from his plain, dark clothes. “I brought a guest, if you don’t mind.”

The first thing Rider sees when he dares to poke his head through the doorway is… he’s not entirely sure _what_ he’s looking at, sitting there motionless in the grass and snatching glimmers of light from the last of the day’s sun. It’s boxy and appears to be constructed from scraps of meshed and corrugated metal, its many weld scars chipped and ancient. The back is a high-walled bed of steel, the front dominated by an exposed battery and a crude seat. The steering wheel and lever jutting between the battery and the seat make him wonder if it’s some sort of transportation unit, but nothing about it looks like it was built for land. No chassis, no roof, not even any wheels. Rider flinches when the back wall swings down and a tiny human scrambles out, running right for them. The human is female, Rider thinks, short and quick with a face shockingly similar to that of The Voice. Faces other than his own have been a rare sight to Rider. Recognition does not come quickly. It certainly doesn’t help that her hair has grown longer and been twisted into a braid since he saw her last. But Rider eventually sees her as the same human he’d found on that beach before he’d left to confront The Star, running circles around The Voice’s legs without showing so much as a hint of fear at the destruction trailing Rider’s. She barely makes a sound when she darts up behind her father, and she doesn’t hesitate to look up at Rider, smiles at him like she’s known him all her life. The Voice drops down to one knee and places a hand on each of her shoulders. She raises her own hand and makes a brief but deliberate gesture.

“Later,” The Voice says. He gently turns her toward Rider. “First you need to greet our friend. Say hello, Violette.”

Rider is left wondering what a genus of flowering perennials has to do with any of this when the girl flashes her palm at him and sends her hand tilting back and forth in a blur. He stares blankly until The Voice speaks up.

“She’s saying hello.” The Voice lifts his arm and repeats the motion, much less emphatically. “Now you try. It’s only polite.”

Rider flits his eyes to the side before looking back, uncertain. He hesitates to draw up an arm and copy the gesture with a slow, stiff hand.

“There we go.” The Voice abruptly throws out his arms and lets the girl go bounding back into the grass. “No climbing,” he calls out after her. He shakes his head at Rider when he turns back, smiling softly. “She’d live in the trees, if she could.” The Voice leans a little to peer around Rider’s shoulder, dragging his eyes over the shadows rapidly overtaking the light of the setting sun. “Spring cleaning?” he asks. He gives a dismissive wave when Rider stares at him, uncomprehending. “Never mind. I suppose it’s my fault for leaving you with such a mess.”

Rider sidesteps out of the way when The Voice invites himself in, casting a look in the girl’s direction before covertly propping the doors open with the flip of a switch. A dead leaf flies in on the wind and catches in Rider’s hair, silently withering to ashes. He curls a hand around it only to dissolve it into the mats and tangles. His palm comes away black. He frowns. He trails after The Voice and stops when he stops, watching as he deliberates over something Rider can’t see. Eventually, The Voice crouches and takes up a small metal cube. Rider quickly recognizes it for its bright yellow button.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t find it,” The Voice mutters, rolling the cube in his cupped fingers as his lips tilt and stretch. “Shows what I know.” He sets the cube down on a stack of scuffed metal girders and taps his fingers twice against the surface, drawing up a hollow ringing sound that echoes in the dimness. He turns, searching again for something Rider doesn’t see. The Voice drags a breath through his nose and turns to lean against some other object of mysterious origin. He crosses his arms over his chest, crosses his legs at the knee, considers Rider.

“I would ask what you’ve been doing all this time,” he says, with some humor and a hint of sadness, “but I think I can make an educated guess.” The Voice indicates Rider’s hair with a sweep of his hand. “That’s a bold look. Was the wilderness that exciting?”

Rider just stares at him.

“Ah. Well, in either case, I suppose you made the right choice, deciding to come back.” The Voice tilts his head just so. “Or, are you only passing through…?”

Rider can answer that much. He shakes his head.

“Oh. That’s good to hear.” The Voice says it lightly, but Rider doesn’t miss how some of the rigidness goes out of his shoulders. The Voice chews absently at his lip, glancing around like the walls are objects of great interest. It’s… mildly alarming, how much his face changes when he refuses to meet Rider’s eyes. Having only ever seen him hidden behind that mask, Rider wonders if it’s just another one of his quirks or if human faces are _supposed_ to twitch and stretch like that. It’s like he’s having an argument with himself. It’s fleeting. Rider only has the vaguest knowledge of human emotion, but he knows enough to be wary of an unpredictable silence.

“I’ll be honest,” The Voice starts. “My motivations for coming here aren’t entirely—selfless. As much as I’m sure you’ve missed my company…” He huffs. Rider wonders if it’s supposed to be a laugh. “I didn’t just come to talk with you. Well. Talk _at_ you.” He abruptly looks off to the side. Rider’s still struggling to pull a meaning from his rambling when The Voice unfolds his arms and shifts to stand up straight.

“Those first few hours were—hard,” The Voice says, still not looking at him as he drags over the small metal cube and busies his hands with it. His fingers are deft and quick, his eyes somehow both restless and focused as the cube goes dancing over his knuckles. “I thought I’d prepared myself for every possibility, as much time as I’d spent up there, but even when I had her hand in mine and I thought that everything was going to turn out as I’d hoped, I saw you. Flying up to—whatever was waiting for you up there. And I couldn’t help but think that I’d made a grave mistake.” A side of the cube cracks and snaps, a square breaking off in one clean piece. The Voice swiftly tucks that between his fingers like it’s all part of the plan. “I’d been so sure you wouldn’t, was so sure you’d changed, and I suppose me being _right_ is all that matters in the end. But still. I’d _also_ been sure that I’d be home to see my daughter take her first steps. There came that little shred of doubt, nibbling away at my thoughts until I couldn’t help but wonder—What if? What if you _would?_   What if you _hadn’t_ changed at all? … What if it had all been for nothing?” A bundle of wires spills out of the broken cube. The Voice stares at it like it’s something worthy of study. “I thought I could have accepted that, so long as I could see her one last time. And yet…” What’s left of the cube gives a sharp crunch when he crushes it on a girder with one finger.

“There’s a saying they have, out there in _proper_ civilization.” The Voice’s stare drifts up the walls and catches on the first few stars of the night. “They say you can work your whole life planting a garden, put all the love and care you can into every little detail, but you can never get so much as a sprout if you spend all your time planting stones. For years, that was all I could think about in those cells.” He scratches the bridge of his nose. “But my time down _here_ has only proven to me that I haven’t just been planting pebbles. I’ve been pulling entire _forests_ out of rocks. Usually for no other reason than to say I could. And then I burn it all to the ground. Every time.” The Voice chews his cheek. He takes up the scraps of the cube and bounces them in the center of his palm. He pauses. The cube pieces twitch and slide, and the cube is suddenly whole again. It rolls up his fingers at an angle that _should_ be impossible. Giving a little huff, The Voice tilts up his index finger with a flourish. The cube snaps up onto one of its corners to sit perfectly balanced atop the swirl of The Voice’s skin. His small smile becomes just a little more sure of itself.

“What do you know,” The Voice says, soft, “maybe I _haven’t_ lost it.”

Rider stands there, barely feeling it as a particularly sharp gust tears at his hair and coat. He’s seen that look before, or rather, he’s seen that _smile_ before. The rest of his face has never been a part of it until now. The Voice is _building_ something. Like he’s still trapped in those cells and Rider still has to rely on him to navigate. Rider had stayed on his feet as much as possible, up there, not resting until he could feel the breeze on his skin and the sun on his face, and The Voice had always matched his stride, even when he’d been floating some impossible distance away. Calling open doors that loomed like giants, building bridges from scraps of free-floating debris, ripping down mountains to chart new paths and mold new horizons. The Voice had done it all without lifting so much as a finger. And yet he’d been imprisoned in the same walls that he had torn down with a thought. Such enigmas are far beyond Rider’s understanding. The cube, still balanced perfectly on the tip of The Voice’s finger, is no exception.

“How do you feel about water lilies?” The Voice asks, with such abruptness that Rider has to stop and turn his words over before he can even consider a proper reaction. The cheer is back in The Voice’s words, but even that sounds too sharp, too light. His eyes fix firmly to the cube as it begins to spin. “I’ve always liked them. Had a little pond full of them just outside my window, back when… Well, back before you’d arrived.” He waves vaguely toward the door. It takes a moment for Rider to realize he’s gesturing to the girl still running around in the grass. “That was almost her name, Lily. Or it would have been, if _I’d_ had a say in it. I thought Violette was too old-fashioned. But once her mother had an idea in her head…” The Voice lets that dangle as his smile falls leaden on his face. Rider doesn’t notice at first, the cube is now spinning so fast, but it’s beginning to change shape, thinning and elongating until The Voice has a blurred cylinder spinning just over his raised finger, and then it’s smashed flat by an invisible hand, the edges of the new, palm-sized disc flaring out in upturned spikes. Rider can see a smudge of bright yellow somewhere in the chaos. One layer of spikes becomes two. Two becomes three. Four. Five. Six. Rider counts eight layers before the yellow starts to swirl down into the center.

“I am woefully out of practice,” The Voice says once the yellow has settled at the bottom. He frowns before tilting his hand up with a small flick of the wrist. What was once a cube slows to a stop, spinning to drop in the center of The Voice’s palm. It’s a flower, Rider realizes, small, sharp petals jutting in layers around a splash of yellow that used to be a button. Shredded wires dangle under like a tangle of limp roots. Rider nearly fumbles it when The Voice tosses it to him in an arc.

“For the next garden,” The Voice says. “Let’s hope we don’t plant another stone, this time.” He goes to the door and leans against the frame, watching his daughter in silence.

Rider curls his fingers around the flower, just enough to shield it in the shadows of his hands. A—water lily, he called it? Rider performs a quick scan and finds no such thing in his archives. He turns the metal in his hands, cautious. It isn’t reacting to his touch. If anything, those sharp edges present more of a danger to him than he does to it. He gingerly sets it down in a bar of moonlight and trails after The Voice, stopping right on the threshold of metal and ash. The girl is climbing through waves of grass nearly as high as her shoulders, quiet as the night.

“She’s just like you,” The Voice says, eyes fixed on his daughter as she emerges victorious from the battle with the grass and comes to a stop at the bank of a narrow river. The Voice huffs when she straightens and kicks a rock far into the current. Rider’s sure it’s meant to be a laugh this time. “Never says a word, but she understands. It’s not all bad. I suppose I do enough talking for the both of us.” He picks at the cuff of his sleeve, twists. Rider watches him out of the corners of his eyes. He can’t remember seeing him nearly so restless in the cells, but Rider supposes the circumstances had kept both their minds on other things. The Voice has shadows under his eyes and nail marks on his palms. His thin face and prominent cheekbones give him a tired, half-crazed look that until now was mostly hidden behind that mask. Rider wonders when he’s last slept. How often do humans sleep? Rider is unsure. But he knows that going too long without it can have adverse effects on their bodies. And their minds.

The Voice turns. He studies Rider, long enough for Rider to start to feel uncomfortable. “You know,” The Voice says after a moment, though Rider doesn't know at all, “as much as I'm used to being ignored, I'm beginning to realize that all these one-sided conversations haven't just been a matter of poor timing. Far be it from me to _intrude_ on your little silent treatment, but... are you able to talk at all?”

Rider supposes he’s been expecting this question. If anything, he’s surprised it hasn’t come sooner, but it still draws his guard up and leaves him tensing on his feet. Until he’d come to this world, he’d never thought it strange to go without speaking for months, if not years, at a time. A Rider is made to obey. A Rider speaks only when spoken to. And though he’s certainly capable of it, Rider has long found words unnecessary even when they were kept within the confines of the Mothership. It’s not like he’s had many to talk to, and what little could ever be asked of him could just as easily be answered with a nod or a shake of the head. Perhaps it’s more complex than that. But tonight isn’t a night to go down that path. All Rider does is nod.

“And yet you won’t.” It’s not even a question. Rider nods anyway. “Well.” The Voice tilts his mouth, looking off toward the g—Violette. Her name is Violette, despite her looking nothing like a flower. Human naming customs seem so needlessly obtuse. “It’s enough that you’re a good listener.” His small smile twists into something withered and bitter. “We seem to have a shortage of those down here.”

Rider’s not sure what to make of that, but before The Voice can say anything else, his daughter sprints up to them, caked knee to heel in mud and holding a flower with the most vibrant yellow petals Rider has ever seen.

“You found a new one,” The Voice says brightly, bending to take it from her as Rider wrinkles his nose at the dirt crumbling on the floor. “Thank you. We’ll put it in some water as soon as we get home.” He straightens, tucking the flower into his belt. “Do you know what this one’s called?” Violette nods eagerly, drawing another grin out of him. “Show me.”

Rider looks on, confused, as Violette lifts a hand and makes another one of those small but deliberate gestures. This one’s different from the last. Her hand stays in the air, her fingers locked in place as she looks up expectantly at her father. The Voice slowly draws up a hand to copy it.

“J?” The Voice asks. Violette nods, changing the position of her hand. The Voice is quicker to copy this one, making a simple loop with his thumb and fingers. “O.” He briefly turns to Rider, smile flashing. “That one’s easy.” He turns back. “N… Oops, not quite. The letter you’re looking for is…” His eyes wander up to the roof. Rider can’t find anything there, but soon The Voice is hesitantly twisting his hand into something new. “Q?” The Voice tries. He relaxes a little when Violette nods. They trade more gestures. Some seem to come more easily to The Voice than others. Before long, Violette drops her hand. “Jonquil,” The Voice says. “Very good!” He musses up her hair and chuckles when she goes running back into the field.

“There are some days I can barely keep up with her,” The Voice says as he turns and goes digging for a broom Rider has left with the rest of the things The Voice left behind. The Voice clears the mud from the floor in three sharp swipes, still wearing his smile, but his eyes are hiding something else, something Rider isn’t sure he’s comfortable seeing. He sets the broom against a wall and brushes the flower belted to his hip—jonquil, Rider reminds himself, tucking that away somewhere—before dropping his hand at his side. “She’s been very patient with me, teaching me all those signs. She still struggles with a pen. But she _knows_ things. Always so curious, always so full of energy.” He scratches at his cheek, mouth twisting. “If nothing else, I suppose I’ve done _that_ right.”

A sharp squawk pierces the air from the rafters, startling both of them. There’s a furious beating of wings, more sharp trills, and all Rider sees is a blur of beak and feathers as two birds go screaming into the night.

“ _Those_ things,” The Voice says, scowling. “You’ll want to tear down that nest sooner rather than later. Keep them around long enough and you’ll have a whole roof full of them.” The Voice lifts a brow when Rider shakes his head. “No? Well, maybe you’ll change your tune when they start hatching.”

Rider stands at the doorway as he watches them leave. Violette’s already up on the seat of that strange metal vehicle, belting herself in, and The Voice has a hand on the wheel and is turning to say goodbye when he suddenly stops. He stands there for a moment, one foot on the ground and the other on the metal, and then he’s standing on the grass, dragging his hand over to a small switch. The vehicle springs to life, lifting off the ground with a soft, low hum and hovering in the air as its panels light up in a surge of electric blue. The Voice says something to Violette, something Rider can’t hear, and then he’s pulling away and walking toward Rider, coming to a stop on the ashen path.

“Try not to spend too much time inside,” The Voice says. Cold blue light thrums from the vehicle to paint stark shadows on his face. It makes him look older, gaunter, drained. “It would be a terrible waste to come all this way just to lock yourself up again.” He glances out into the fields, seems to find nothing. “Don’t let yourself fall into that trap. It has a way of creeping up on you.”

The Voice leaves. Rider rests. In the dark, his mind wanders. His thoughts keep catching on those same words. _She’s just like you. Never says a word, but she understands._ Rider tells himself his silence is a matter of habit, even more a matter of convenience.

But those can’t be the only reasons he hasn’t spoken in years. Rider isn’t even allowed that small mercy.

High above and far, far away—on another world entirely, as far as Rider’s concerned—his Jailer had said similar things. _Heard you’re quiet_ was his only introduction when Rider had jerked awake, startled by a crack of thunder and still shaking from a battle that had left him nearly cleaved in half. Those _masks_ had been the first things he’d seen, and he’d recoiled to find that he could barely move, arms locked into two great metal tubes and legs bound by shackles and the loose straps of his own coat. Though he had never once seen his Jailer unmasked, he could always hear his smile in his words. _Let’s fix that._

The first shock had torn into him then, and Rider supposes that he wouldn’t have been able to talk then even if he’d wanted to. All he’d been able to do was let out some tortured shard of a breath, too stunned to even hold himself up, and his Jailer had taken him by the hair and jerked him back, hard enough to make something snap.

 _I_ will _get a noise out of you_ , he’d said, not for the last time. Another shock, harder and louder than the first and still nothing compared to what was to come. _All we need is a little patience._ But Rider had stayed quiet. Rider had found the one thing he could hold over the man who’d taken away everything else, and he would never let it go. He’s proud to know that he never did.

And though Rider knows the Jailer’s dead, knows that he died in agony and that he’s been left to rot in his cell all the way up there in a void of endless storms, Rider still scrapes his nails over the floor, and he pushes himself upright, eyes catching on his wrist. His armor glows faintly with the unwanted thought of battle. Rider grits his teeth before snapping the cuff off, feeling it thrum as the edges burn from blue to neon orange. The scars leave little skin untouched on his body, faded lightning bolts that thread every vein and wire, but none are so savage as the ones covering his arms. Every mark represents another shock, fractals snared in fractals, and he has to concentrate to pick one from the mass. Before this world, Rider had thought scarring was impossible. His regenerative abilities had taught him nothing else. But the shocks had been so frequent and so prolonged that his body had only ever found time to rebuild when he was finally dead, and now he’s marked forever, chased by the one memory that somehow still defines him.

 _Why don’t you talk?_ The Jailer had asked, over and over as each anguished hour bled into eternity. Sometimes Rider couldn’t think about the world thriving below, about the wildflowers or the green. Sometimes all Rider could think about was killing. _Why don’t you scream?_ Sing _for me._

Rider drags a nail along a raised dark line, scraping away skin that rebuilds itself in seconds, and then he slams the cuff back into place, rolling over to hide from the clouds for as long as he can.


	3. Feel the sun on my face, sharpened like a razor blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from [Cheerleader Effect](https://youtu.be/Ltrt2ilQl_E) by Carpenter Brut. It looks like I'll be updating this on a quasi-monthly schedule. Happy birthday, Fio. I'm sorry I don't have more for you to read.

If Rider has learned one thing in the years since he'd coasted down to that long stretch of meadow and taken that first burning step onto a world free for the taking, it's that life had been so much simpler when he'd been without his own thoughts for company. In other days, in other worlds, his mind had only ever traveled in a straight line, every break or deviation overlooked for one common goal. He had a mission, and he would see it completed, even if it cost him his own life. He'd never dared to question his actions, and those first stirrings of free thought, loosened by a sea of grass and the gentlest whisper of a breeze, hadn't been enough for him to start. But they'd marked the first fork in a path long familiar, shaken him just enough for those first few seeds to fall and take root, and by the time he'd been locked into his cell, Rider had been left with nothing but the unexplored depths of his own mind, and he'd had nowhere to go but down.

There, tangled among the roots and the seemingly unshakable notion that his entire reason for existence was to follow the will of another, Rider had realized some things. Chief among them was that no one was going to come for him. The mission had been compromised. They would find a new Rider, make one, if necessary. Why waste their resources on one mere scout when there were still entire galaxies to be harvested? Rider, ever the soul of obedience, had learned to make peace with that. What he hadn't learned to accept was that the inhabitants of this world had thoughts and wills of their own.

Rider had never deluded himself into thinking that earlier target planets were lacking in life. There had always been the odd world where he would never see so much as a glimpse of another face, but those were the rare exception, and he had never hesitated to call forth an invasion even when thousands of years of life and culture had stretched and ebbed and _breathed_ all around him. The mission had been all that mattered, and until very recently, he'd never thought that sparing a planet had been his choice to make. But something had changed in his time in the cells. Or rather, Rider had been forced to confront an ugly truth: this world's inhabitants had lives and goals independent of him. He hadn't felt any sympathy or guilt, hadn't felt anything beyond a deep-seated _need_ to free himself, but never before had he thought of other people as anything other than extensions of their world, the same way he might have thought of an ant or a tree. Living, but not a life. The mission took priority, and in the cells, that pattern had been much the same. Find the Jailer, kill them, and move on to the next one until the end was finally in sight. But it couldn't have been as simple as scouting a new world and returning to the Mothership. A world couldn't think. A world wouldn't fight to defend itself. And if he had to choose between a target world and the phantom world he had been created to save, Rider would have killed anyone who stood in the way of Assimilation. But there he'd been, as trapped and helpless as the very people he'd thought would be just like all the others. By then, his mind had no longer been limited to one narrow path. It had become a labyrinth, and he had been trapped inside.

And now, his thoughts are like living things, scattered and budding and _growing_.

Rider doesn't fail to see the value in his newfound free will. Even when the chaos of every untethered thought leaves him scrambling to find any sense of order, he just has to think back to all those other worlds, all those other Assimilations, and he tells himself that the right choice doesn't always have to be the easiest one. But there are two edges to that particular blade. For every thought of calm and quiet and the wonder of just how far those hills can stretch, there come a dozen more memories of death and destruction and the needless thirst for violence. His mind is constantly in motion, and even when he finds himself longing for the days where he only ever had to worry for the sake of his mission, Rider knows, now more than ever, that he was never anything more than expendable. He was a scout, a drone, one of countless identical cogs in an almighty and nefarious machine. And the small hope of freedom in a world that once marked itself a prison doesn't change the fact that a cog is useless once it stops turning.

So Rider decides to make a new mission for himself. A project, The Voice would call it, as he has many times with his own self-made distractions, but Rider still has to cling to _something_ familiar now that every other thought is threatening to pull him apart. He can't say how many times he's organized and reorganized the inside of the launch tower, but it's at least once more than necessary, and he's sure even The Voice is starting to lose track of everything he has. He spends those first few nights charting the sky and marking the phases of this world's moon. He can see fewer stars here than he could on the mountain, but there are also far fewer clouds. Sometimes he can see the odd planet, and he wonders if that's where he would have gone if things had turned out differently, if he'd refused to accept that there was always more than one choice to make. He's not sure which surprises him more—the fact that thoughts can layer and grow, or the fact that a planet this size only has one natural satellite. When the charts are done, he climbs into his flight suit and scouts the land surrounding the launch tower. There isn't much. It doesn't take long. But he does pause when he passes over the door to the cells, still standing empty in its blackened patch of earth. He still hasn't found the will to approach it.

"You know," The Voice says one day, tinkering over a strange blocky object that hums any time he brushes it with his fingers, and Rider is starting to wonder if that particular phrase has any real meaning or if he's somehow forgotten everything he's learned since being freed from that machine, "I've been thinking about an old project of mine. Nothing fancy, just something to occupy my time. It showed so much promise, but in my haste I threw it out the moment I'd hit a wall. Maybe it's best left abandoned. Of course, I've never been one to follow my better judgment." He stares at the floor. "So much work, abandoned and left to rot." His scowl is as abrupt as the anger that threads his voice. "Maybe I could actually get _something_ done without _her_ breathing down my neck. It all has to come back to her and her rules."

Rider doesn't have to guess whom he's talking about, but he's too busy mulling over The Voice's words to give it much more thought. _Rule._ Rider has been trying to think of something else to call the woman with the blue scarf, but nothing has ever seemed to catch until now. The Rule. It suits her more than others.

"I'm beginning to think that it's better to have things blow up in my face," The Voice says, his eyes everywhere but his work. "At least then I'd actually be _doing_ something."

Days pass. Rider finds distractions. It isn't long before he learns that the little fork-tailed bird has made considerable progress on its nest. He doesn't dare approach it, but he doesn't shy away as he once had. He crouches there on the lip of the tower, watching in silence as the bird affixes another layer to the panel and the sun shines warm on his back, when he hears that now-familiar humming. The Voice has come alone, and earlier than usual. Rider pushes to his feet before making a quick calculation and vaulting off into open air. He lands in a stretch of scorched soil, light and sure-footed. It takes a moment for The Voice to turn around and notice him. The Voice jolts mid-step, stumbling back before he catches himself, and he huffs once before smiling. "Never a dull moment with you, is there?" He hoists a bag over his shoulder, already making his way for the door. "It's a beautiful day. Shame it has to be wasted on work."

Today's "work" appears to be the same as yesterday's: bickering over whatever he's brought in from the village—something that looks vaguely like an engine the rough size and shape of a human head, this time—while Rider sits quietly in the corner. Rider doesn't mind. Even if The Voice has a tendency to ramble, it's good to have someone else around. Rider's thoughts are beginning to feel like droplets in a downpour, hard to follow and harder to catch. Having The Voice around somehow makes things quieter. He goes over his usual topics. The state of the village, Violette's latest antics, whoever's annoyed him most recently. For once, he doesn't talk about The Rule. That breaks into an entirely new cluster of complaints, but no thought ever seems to be wholly connected to another, and his annoyance is short-lived and wavering. He talks about the days before Rider had returned. He talks about the days after. The other villagers are still trying to find a place for him, and it seems to be going poorly. Rider wants to ask why he doesn't just leave, knows that there are far more sophisticated human settlements out there and that The Voice has traveled much greater distances, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. The Voice goes on. He says he isn't made for fishing or farming or cooking. With all the clay in the soil, they can't get anything more than an occasional sprig of lettuce or the odd head of cabbage, and the weather is starting to get too warm for both. They've got him beside a potter's wheel for the time being, and there he at least seems to be slightly less miserable. He likes working with his hands, he says. By the time The Voice moves on to a new topic with his usual meandering cadence, Rider isn't sure which The Voice hates more: the years he'd spent in the cells, or that week he'd spent in front of a loom.

"They say everyone has a role, so long as they're willing to work for it." Before now, Rider had never thought someone could _clean_ something aggressively. "All I know is that the sorts of people who like to say those things are _also_ the sorts of people who've never worked a day in their lives." The Voice takes up a two-headed pin and splits the prongs on his teeth, rooting around in a crate to produce a smooth, pebble-sized disc not unlike those Rider saw lighting up the village. It gives a sharp chirp when The Voice squeezes it between his thumb and forefinger, floating up to hover over The Voice's shoulder before firing out a small beam of cold blue light. The beam follows The Voice's eyes as he bends to peer deeper into the engine-like apparatus. Whatever he sees causes him to frown. "Lovely." He drums his fingers before the apparatus rises and splits, every piece snapping apart to form a levitating cross section of battered tubes and wires. The Voice brandishes the two-headed pin and goes digging, all without lifting a hand. Each brush of pin and wire produces a small shower of thin blue sparks. Rider flinches every time.

"Looks like I have my work cut out for me today." The Voice's eyes are sharp, following every twist and twitch of the apparatus even as he folds his arms and falls forward in a slouch. He settles his weight on a crude table of crates and girders, eyes never moving from his task. "Nothing ever has to be simple." He taps his fingers again. "I don't suppose you have a spare synchroscope tucked away in here somewhere?"

Rider stares blankly.

"Thought it was worth asking." The pin goes floating down to the floor. "In happier news, Violette's been improving with her cursive. I can't tell you how many times they've made her write out her name. It probably wouldn't have taken this long if _I'd_ been the one to name her, but you know me. I'm not one to hold a grudge." The Voice leans forward, a section of wire twisting inches from his eyes. "It's a small step, but I'm proud of her. She's been working so hard." He reaches out to prod at a coil of tubing, squints. "Not everyone can be so comfortable with their voice."

Rider knows that well enough.

"'She's just a late bloomer,' they say. 'She'll learn eventually.' _I_ say she's _already_ learned. It's all the others who refuse to learn with her. Half of them can't even sign the alphabet, much less stop themselves from talking over her." The Voice works a hand deeper into the apparatus, fingertips snared in wire as he goes looking for some other imperfection. "They talk with their mouths, she talks with her hands, but somehow one is worth more than the other. However little." His finger slips and prods just a little too hard. A line of tubing begins to bleed a black, viscous substance. The Voice just pulls back and shakes out a rag, casually scraping away the grime. " _You_ say everything with your eyes."

Rider blinks.

"Yes. Just like that." The Voice tosses down the rag and snaps every piece back into place without lifting so much as a finger. Soon the apparatus is whole again. "Windows into the soul, our eyes. Or so they say. I'm not so sure I believe in that sort of thing." He plants his chin in his palm as he turns the apparatus over in bored inspection. "Yours are certainly unique. I wonder what they can show _me?_ "

Rider squints at him.

"Oh, how I've missed our chats." The Voice abruptly claps his hands together, a sudden pop in the thrum of machinery as the apparatus goes flying down. "Right. I think this calls for a break. I don't suppose you've seen my kettle?"

Rider watches as The Voice goes digging through the mountain of things he's refused to touch. He doesn't know what lurks in that mess, but far too many items have markings that look suspiciously like lightning bolts, and he's not going to be testing them any time soon. He tenses when The Voice gives a triumphant little "A-ha!" and tenses again when The Voice drops his findings on a bench of cinderblocks. Rider only approaches it when The Voice goes off searching for something he calls an adapter. It's a sky blue _thing_ , for Rider can think of no other word to describe it, curved and smooth with a worn black handle and an insulated cord that terminates in two rounded metal prongs. One side has some sort of upturned spout. Or maybe it's a nose. Rider shuffles out of the way when The Voice comes striding back, setting down a half-drained jug of water pulled from his bag and a small meshed tube filled with unknown plant material. The Voice presses the prongs into an angular purple _thing_ , drawing the blue _thing_ to life with a chirp and tiny red light. Rider flinches again when he senses the low but unmistakable thrum of trapped electricity. The water goes pouring into the blue thing's body with a hollow rush. Sooner than expected, the water comes bubbling to a boil.

"Ever had tea?" The Voice drags up a cup from somewhere in the clutter and wipes it down. "I'm rather indifferent to the taste, but there are just some days I need something different to clear my head, and it's not like I have many options all the way out here. Works wonders for the throat. Settles the stom—" He stops, brows twisting. "Do you _have_ a stomach?"

 _Two_ , Rider thinks, but he doesn't do anything more than nod. He _can_ eat, but it's like talking or sleeping—unnecessary and often more trouble than it's worth. Corruption doesn't stop at his skin.

"Oh." The Voice blinks like he's logging that away for later. "Interesting." Soon he has the cup filled near to the top with steaming water, and he's lowering the tube of plant material into the depths, pulling back to let it steep. There's a stretch of silence before he leans forward to take a sip. He pulls a face. "What I wouldn't give for a spoonful of sugar." The Voice stares into the cup a moment longer before abruptly straightening. "I think today would be a day best spent outside, don't you?"

Rider props the tower door open once The Voice passes through it, hesitating to step onto the grass while the wind sighs warm against his face. The Voice's tea is somehow spared when he throws out his arms with a theatrical sigh, turning up his face like he'd rather drink up the sun than whatever lies in his cup. It's a mild day, breezy and bright, but the clouds forming on the horizon don't escape Rider's attention, and he can practically taste the humidity. He takes two steps onto the blackened grass before stopping. The green may seem to go on forever, but that doesn't mean the Corruption can't tear it all away in an instant. He's staring down at his feet, feeling for ashes that never rise, when The Voice finally turns around.

"Hey." The Voice claps his hand twice against the side of the strange metal vehicle, drawing a sharp, hollow ringing from it. "Have a seat."

Rider slowly raises a brow.

"Don't worry. It's perfectly safe." The Voice drags his tea to his lips. "Half the work with the cells was figuring out what you could or couldn't touch."

Rider's sure he knows what he's talking about, but he still hesitates to walk closer and set foot on… whatever this thing is supposed to be. He turns to The Voice, as if awaiting confirmation. The Voice just takes a long sip from his cup. Rider has to stretch a little to get his leg over a patch of living grass, but nothing blooms black under his soles, and he doesn't hesitate to drag the other foot forward, balancing on a surface hard and cool. The walls are high. Rider has to bend a little to peer around one side. Nothing is spreading. Nothing is dead.

"Hold this a moment, will you?" The Voice thrusts the cup of tea into Rider's hands before he can properly draw up his arms, disappearing around the side of the vehicle without any explanation. Rider isn't aware that the sides are hinged until he hears a creak and a snap, and suddenly a square of metal falls away from the top, folding down flat against the vehicle as the piece immediately below it whines and creaks. Soon that also falls away, but it doesn't fold flat. Something clatters as The Voice props the second piece up, forming a makeshift bench where he quickly rests his knee. More squares of metal are folded away in seconds, leaving a view of the hills stretching green and boundless beyond. "Thought you might have wanted a little more room to breathe," The Voice says, taking back his cup and taking a seat.

Rider doesn't need to breathe, but he lets that go unspoken as he drops down and drags up a knee, resting his chin on it as his back presses to one wall and his foot presses against the other. He peers up at the sky as the breeze whispers behind him. The sunlight brushes his face like a warm, gentle hand. Even so, the clouds linger. He wonders if the storms are as violent here as they were on that mountain. A sky as blue as this one can still be split to pieces.

"Oh, almost forgot." The Voice digs around in his pocket and produces a small, handheld tool with two chipped blades. Rider's never used one before, but he recognizes it for what it is. A pair of scissors.

"I thought it might help tame some of that… Well…" The Voice sweeps his hand around his head.

Rider frowns a little, but he does take them, giving a slight nod of acknowledgment before he gingerly works his fingers through the handles. No burning. No ash. The first knot of hair slips away with a snap. He has a little pile growing beside him when The Voice speaks up again.

"Things finally seem to be warming up for the summer. I can't say I'm thrilled by all this heat, but longer days are always welcome. You have a way of keeping cool in that tin can of yours, don't you?"

Rider has been to planets with boiling seas and atmospheres prone to spontaneous combustion. He is no stranger to heat. Though the launch tower doesn't have anything more sophisticated than a basic ventilation system, he nods.

"Good to know." The Voice nearly drains his cup in one gulp. He drums his fingers on the sides, a gesture Rider is starting to find familiar. "I had a dream about the cells last night."

Rider looks up mid-cut.

"Oh, it's nothing terribly exciting. And nothing much new. But there _was_ one difference. You'd broken out, somehow. And I was the only one left alive, trapped in there."

Rider stares at him.

"It's—funny. Up there, all I'd ever thought about was finally being free. About being with her. And now that I'm down _here_ , all I can ever think about is all that time I'd spent locked up alone." The Voice frowns as he swirls his drink around. A drop of tea slips red as in plops down onto the grass. "Funny how your head plays these sorts of tricks on you, isn't it?"

Rider doesn't respond.

"I guess it doesn't really matter. Dreams are just dreams, right?" He takes another drink, shallower this time. "Dreams and nightmares and shattered delusions." The Voice stares down at his feet, lost in thought. He presses his lips together, seems to consider something, before wriggling one foot out of its shoe and dragging it along the grass. The other is quick to follow. He heaves a little sigh. "I never thought I would have missed something so _simple_."

A bird trills as a cloud passes over the sun. A winged insect bounces up from the grass and goes buzzing into the hills. Rider sits hyperaware of every little sound as he waits for The Voice to say anything more, but he doesn't dare to move. He never truly forgets that he's an invader here, and the moments where he's surrounded by life only serve to remind him of just how quickly it can all crumble to ash. Rider flinches when The Voice turns to face him.

"Your world," The Voice says. "It's not like this one, is it?"

Rider's never had a world. Before this one, he'd never even stayed on one long enough to see the same landmark twice. And now he's destroyed the one thing he could ever conceivably call home. But he knows well enough that the phantom world, if it even still exists, has never looked anything like this. He shakes his head.

"That's what I thought." The Voice takes a drink. He's down to the dregs now. "You like it here."

It isn't a question, but Rider nods anyway.

"Hmm." The Voice once again drums his fingers against the cup, looking out into the green. Rider feels a slight chill when he realizes what he's staring at.

"Well," The Voice says, rising, "no use delaying it further. Wait here a moment. I'll be right back." He disappears into the tower, the grass crunching under his bare feet as his tea cup sits empty where he sat. Rider waits. It's much longer than a moment when The Voice finally comes back, but Rider isn't one to complain. The Voice drags up the apparatus he's spent the better part of the afternoon tearing to pieces and sets it on the vehicle's seat with a grunt. He hops into the seat beside it and tugs back a loose bit of paneling beside the wheel. There's a hole in the metal just behind him, big enough for Rider to see through. Rider pushes to his feet and moves to peer over The Voice's shoulder. As if on cue, a fist-sized knot of multicolored wires tumbles forth from the shadows hiding behind the panel. The Voice halfheartedly attempts to untangle it before letting his hands drop down to his lap. "Today just isn't my day, is it?" He bites his cheek before turning to Rider. "Have a favorite color?"

Rider doesn't hesitate to point to the green.

The Voice tugs it loose and plugs it into the apparatus without comment. There's a whir and a flash, and then a blank screen is thrumming in The Voice's hands, a square of harsh blue light projected onto open air. A little blue line peeks out from under the pad of his thumb, waiting for his input. "Good choice," The Voice says. He swipes a hand over it and somehow pulls forth some manner of interface, a jumble of letters that splays out in a hologram and flickers when he types out a command one-handed. A cursor flashes to reappear on a black screen, blinking faster than before. Silence. Then a string of code written in no language Rider has ever seen races across until it's filled the screen completely. There's another flash, a ping, and then he's staring at a map so detailed that he can see the scars in the earth where his feet have burned the grass away. The launch tower is a dot in a meadow, everything viewed from far, far overhead.

"Bingo." The Voice gives a satisfied little smile. "And now, the moment of truth." He draws up another screen with a few seconds of typing. Dozens of lines fill the blue in a storm of letters and numbers, culminating in the thrice-repeated phrase "V.1.2 © 2054" before the screen flickers and dies. A wordless growl tears from The Voice's lips. He slams the apparatus into his palm. "Damn these ancient—!" Now he's knocking it against the seat. Rider wonders if he should be worried. "Everything _always_ has to fall loose." The Voice cracks it down on a panel. It leaves a few dents, but the interface lights up with a bright little chirp all the same. "Needed some encouragement," The Voice says at Rider's bewildered look. "That's the problem with these old—" He yelps at the sudden shower of sparks. Rider practically teleports to the other end of the vehicle.

"… A minor setback," The Voice says after a moment, looking and sounding like he's fully expecting another burst. " _But_ , progress is progress. Today we learned what _not_ to do." He plucks the green wire loose and pries the apparatus open with his bare hands. He glances over his shoulder, does it again, as if he's suddenly remembered that Rider is there. "Either you've just seen a ghost, or those sparks did more damage than I thought."

Rider looks off to the side, shakes his head, again, harder, before dropping down onto the bed of metal and drawing his legs up close. A blackened knot of hair tumbles into his eyes. He takes up the scissors and cuts it away with more of a slam than a snap.

The Voice, for once, seems to be at a loss for words. He watches mutely as Rider goes on cutting. First the ashes are snipped away, then the tangles. Rider pulls the band out of his hair and lets it tumble free for the first time in years when The Voice finally finds his tongue.

"You know," The Voice says, and Rider frowns at the phrase, "I don't think I've ever seen you with your hair short."

Rider glances at him.

"I know it _was_ , when you first… visited. Nearly everyone in the world was being told to run from a man with short white hair and a long red coat. I would have thought the sword and the gun would have been more obvious, but I'm not one to quibble." The Voice twists and settles against the back of his seat. "Funny as it sounds, I somehow never thought that it could grow. Everything else about you seemed so, well, _inhuman_ that I didn't think you could change like the rest of us." The Voice looks out into the grass. Rider doesn't have to follow his eyes to know what he's staring at. "Everyone was calling you a heartless machine, but you bled, and your hair grew, and you understood when we spoke to you. You felt pain. And I had to wonder if there wasn't something more buried under all those other… qualities."

Rider gathers his hair into his fist and chops off everything he can hold in one hand. It flutters past his shoulders when he releases it. Hardly short, but certainly more manageable. He isn't ready to cut it to the scalp again. It's the one thing that separates him from all the others who share his face. He shrugs off his coat and wraps everything he's cut inside. Maybe he can find a place to hide it in the launch tower.

"And look at that," The Voice says once Rider has his hair tied back into place. His smile is too thin, too nervous. "Now you almost look presentable."

Rider just sits there with his chin on his knees and his arms wrapped around them and blows a tuft of hair from his eyes. The humidity's already making it stick out again.

The Voice laughs, relaxing. It's another half hour before he finally gives up on his screens. "Well," The Voice says, dismissing a line of code with a flick of his hand, "maybe I'll have more luck tomorrow." He yanks out the green wire and presses the panel back into place. Something in the grass catches his eye. He pauses. Then he leans down and plucks up one of the few plants Rider recognizes on sight. A sprig of wild onion, vibrant and green as the land it was pulled from. The Voice twirls it in his fingers before snapping the bulb from the shoot, brandishing it by the roots. "I had a friend who used to grow these on her windowsill," he says, distracted. "She had a talent for that, growing things. All she had to do was drop them in a jar and cover the roots with water. Leave it in the sun, switch out the water every two or three days, and she'd have enough to harvest in less than a week. Shame I could never stand the taste of them. Or the smell." His thin hook of a smile slips into a frown. "I tried to take care of them, for a while. It's so easy, she'd told me. A child could do it. But I'd never managed to get so much as a sprout. Not one." He crushes the shoot in his palm before tossing it back down to the grass. Anger flickers in his eyes, just long enough for Rider to see it disappear. The Voice drops the onion bulb before turning and doesn't seem to notice when it catches in the tubes of the apparatus. He rubs his eyes. "I think it's time for me to head back. I'm sure you're sick of hearing me babble."

Rider follows him into the launch tower. The Voice is still barefoot, and he tenses a little when he finds how cold the floor is. "Now I _know_ this heat isn't a problem for you." He shivers, the movement as exaggerated as the rest of his gestures. He drops the apparatus on a girder and whirls to face Rider. His hair is a windblown mess, for how short it is. He drags it out of his eyes. "Same time tomorrow?" He manages an uneasy smile. "Hopefully things won't blow up in my face again."

Rider stares at him.

"You're right. Maybe I should just go." But he doesn't leave. "Surely you don't just sit in here all day, waiting for me to show up?"

Rider glances meaningfully at the black marks left scorched into the grass.

"Oh, we can think of something for that. Or at least _I_ can. There's a solution to every problem. Sometimes you just have to go digging for it." The Voice's frown tilts. "Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty."

Rider stares.

"Well, enough of that. I'll leave you to your moping."

Rider wonders if that smile is supposed to look real.

The Voice pulls his shoes back on before climbing into the vehicle. Rider watches from the tower door while The Voice turns to look out into the day. The sun is still bright, still warm. Rider knows that he's staring at the door to the cells again. The Voice jerks, shakes his head, and then the vehicle thrums to life with a flick of his thumb. He disappears over a hill, the sound fading with the sight of him. Then there's nothing but the breeze and the soft rush of water.

Rider looks up. The sun is just starting to move from its highest point, the shadows small and stark. He leans against the archway and closes his eyes, taking in the warmth, taking in the sky. He can't say how long it is before he opens his eyes again, but he's looking at the cells, or at least seeing them where they aren't. The clouds beyond seem closer than ever. He's frowning by the time he slams the door closed. There's still plenty of sun beating down through the holes in the panels. He moves to sit where the light shines brightest, but he stops with a glance at the girders. The apparatus is still sitting there, half pulled apart, half scorched. The onion bulb is nestled between a wire and a split copper tube. Rider creeps over like he expects it to bite him.

There's still some water left in the bottom of the tea kettle, long cool. Rider hesitates to touch it. Nothing shocks him. Nothing burns. He takes the kettle by the handle and wanders back to the girders. Cover the roots. Leave it in the sun. A child could do it. He finds a small cap in a pile of assorted junk, bright green and hardly wider than his thumb. It's something he can touch, though he still takes the precaution of wrapping his hand in his sleeve. Rider drops the onion bulb in the cap and carries it over to a bar of sun. He sets it down, pouring the few drops it takes to keep the roots submerged, and straightens, staring. There's still plenty of water left to replace the trickle he's poured. The river is only a short walk away. Rider sets the kettle down on the floor and goes off to find another distraction.


End file.
